


put all your paper maps away

by BurningFairytales



Series: hand shadows and a final wave [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Bruises, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Idiots in Love, M/M, Missing Scene, Not A Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 20:52:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11813970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningFairytales/pseuds/BurningFairytales
Summary: Prompto wishes for a lot of things, but mostly, he wishes he’d have said something sooner.Hindsight, after all, is twenty-twenty.Prompto keeps telling himself he's gonna do it tomorrow, that it isn't the right time - right until he's left with a whole lot of missed chances and no more tomorrow to plan on.





	put all your paper maps away

**Author's Note:**

> Their tragedy, in three acts.

 

 _You’re in a car with a beautiful boy_  
_And you’re trying not to tell him that you love him_  
_But you love him_ _  
(“You Are Jeff” - Richard Siken)_

(Looking back, he’s had chances, and he had a lot of them. He wishes things could be different. He wishes he’d known, that they’d run out of time. Prompto wishes for a lot of things, but mostly, he wishes he’d have said something sooner - had said something at all.

Hindsight, after all, is twenty-twenty.)

 

 

* * *

_P R O T A S I S_  

* * *

 

 

Sitting on the edge of the haven, Noctis’ pale skin is a stark contrast against the dark night sky.

They’ve been playing King’s Knight, but Prompto’s battery died soon after his characters did in battle, and out here in the middle of nowhere, he has no way to charge it. It is now lying discarded at his side - at least until they head back to join the others.

Noctis looks completely relaxed right now, shoulders dropped and gaze lost somewhere in the night - the sky, maybe, or the lights of a few buildings barely visible in the distance. Prompto’s fingers itch for his camera as he sneaks sideway glances at his best friend, but with the darkness, he’d have to use the flash, and he doesn’t want to pull Noct from wherever it is his mind wandered.

So he smothers the urge by burying his fingers in the fabric of his grey pants and settles for committing the image to memory - eyes tracing the line of Noctis’ jaw, the soft smile on his lips, the strand of raven hair that’s fallen into his face that Noctis hasn’t bothered to move out of the way.

Before he’s realised it, Prompto is reaching out, fingers ghosting over Noct’s skin as he brushes it to the side. Noct catches his ungloved hand before he can drop it.

There are bruises there, from today’s fight, where something had rammed into Prompto and he’d crashed into the ground, gun still in hand. Noctis runs his thumb over them - the bruises, green and yellow, and the callouses that even his gloves couldn’t stop from growing after months and months of weapon training.

“We should have used a potion on that,” Noctis muses, as he looks down at the damage with a frown. “I didn’t realise it was this bad.”

Prompto feels his cheeks grow hot. “Nah, dude. They don’t hurt nearly as bad as they look. And they don’t even look that bad. Good thing I was wearing my gloves.”

“Still.”

“Let’s save those potions for when something worse happens to be than that, hm? You know it’s gonna happen.”

Noctis looks over and glares at him. “Like hell it will,” he says. “Not if I can help it.”

He goes back to inspecting the damage, frown deepening as he traces the split skin along his knuckles, but then he covers Prompto’s hand with both of his, and Prompto considers the issue dropped.

They sit like that, for a while, just them and the night. Prompto thinks, I could tell him.

Thinks, Now’s the chance.

He’s been putting it off, this feeling that’s been growing and curling in his chest. This feeling that’s been warm on pleasant and warm on some days, and then storming and threatening to overspill on others.

Prompto’s told Noct he loves him before, lots of times. Just -

Just not like _that_.

It’s not like he doesn’t trust Noct - he trusts Noct with everything he has. But it’s precisely because he trusts him so much that it’s so hard. He doesn’t believe for a second that he’d be turned away, not over something like this, but the idea of things being awkward between them is horrible. Prompto likes this too much, the casual touches and sitting together. He’s selfish. He wants to keep it. The idea of anything changing between them -

He’s just scared.

Maybe tomorrow, he thinks then. Maybe tomorrow.

Slips his fingers between Noct’s and holds on, like he doesn’t want to let go.

 

* * *

 

Lestallum is busy as always, bustling with energy despite the heavy air, or the heat emanating from the power plant.

They’ve just returned from a hunt, having run out of curatives about halfway through - arguably they were pretty horribly prepared, but alas, when you need money, you gotta make do with what you have. Prompto thinks the cut on Gladio’s arm is the worst of it though; Ignis looks appropriately ruffled, and both Noct and he are gonna be sore as all hell tomorrow, but for now, they’re slouched in their plastic chairs, grinning like they won tickets to the chocobo fair.

It’s effort justification, really. They got banged up pretty well, and they’re tired, but they made it, they’re alive, and they’re safe inside the city limits.

Ignis returns to their table and sets down a tray with a large jug of iced tea and four glasses.

“Oh my god, Iggy,” Prompto moans. “I could kiss you right now.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Ignis adjusts his glasses and sits down. “But I’m sure I’ll be in need of assistance with cleaning up the next time we make camp. If you’d like to express your gratitude, that is.”

“I just might. Oh gods.”

Noctis snorts and pours him a glass, and Prompto empties it in the time it takes him to fill the others.

“I’ll see about making reservations at the Leville. Shall we rendezvous there in, say, two hours?”

Prompto’s eyes grow wide. “You’re letting us sleep in actual beds tonight? Noct, he’s letting us sleep in beds tonight.”

“I know,” Noctis laughs. “I convinced him. I absolutely can’t do camping tonight. Sorry, Gladio.”

Gladio shrugs, and then snorts when Prompto clasps Noctis’ hand with both of his. “I love you, buddy. So much right now. You know I’d die for you, right? I’d kill spiders for you.”

“Careful, Noct,” Gladio laughs. “He’ll be asking to marry you if you keep this up.”

It’s a joke - a stupid, stupid joke, but Prompto can’t stop himself freezing for a moment. He’s stuck - what would be more obvious, moving away, or staying right there, hanging on Noctis’ arm?

Ignis speaks up without missing a beat, and Prompto straightens, slowly - inconspicuously, he hopes. “I must beg to differ, Gladio. There are protocols in place, concerning the courting of royalty. I’m sure even Prompto is aware.”

“Well,” Prompto laughs, and hopes to the gods it doesn’t sound as nervous to them as it does to his own ears. “I’m sure it doesn’t involve asking over a sticky table and a glass of iced tea.”

“Indeed, it does not.” There’s a glint in Ignis’ eyes that Prompto can’t quite decipher. It’s unsettling sometimes, how unreadable Ignis can be.

Gladio stands up and stretches. “Can you even imagine? King Noctis and his consort, Prompto. Come on, Iggy, I’ll walk with you. You two kids play nice.”

“We’ll have to take the kingdom back, then,” Ignis says, “to be able to insure that it remains standing under their reign.”

“Well, I’ll be keeping them safe. You’ll protect the kingdom.”

“Guys,” Noctis says, standing. His eyebrow is raised in that perfect arch that means someone’s walking on thin ice. “Let it go.”

Gladio gives a mock salute, and he and Ignis start walking in the direction of the hotel.

“Besides,” Ignis adds, and Prompto is sure he isn’t imagining the way he speaks loudly enough for them to hear. “I must beg to differ, Gladio. I’m sure Noct here is the one that will propose eventually.”

“Yeah?” Gladio smirks, a glint in his eyes. “You wanna bet?”

Prompto buries his burning head in his hands.

Afterwards, Noct and he explore the market place, take a stroll around the city, past the power plant and weapons shop. Prompto just wants to take one more picture down at the outlook, just the two of them with the Disc of Cauthess in the background, before heading to the hotel - it’s nearly dark already, and the disc seems to almost glow at night, and Prompto’s all the lights in the city are gonna make for great lighting.

And then they hear the music.

The plaza at the bottom of the stairs is filled with people; some are sitting on the steps, others are seated on the benches the food trucks provide. And some - some are dancing to the music being played from a hi-fi system someone’s hooked up.

It’s fun to watch. They’re not all dancing the same way; a few couples are just holding onto each other and swaying, some are spinning in circles that don’t seem to follow a pattern that makes sense to anyone but them, but some of them are moving more deliberate step sequences, some of which Prompto even recognises from the dance lessons Noct’s been giving him at camp, when it’s gotten late and they’re alone.

But no matter how they’re dancing - all of them are smiling, laughing, without a care in the world. Prompto finds himself walking closer. He snaps a picture, then two.

It seems so completely untouched by anything outside the city - the war, the daemons, the Niffs. It reminds Prompto, in the strangest way, of the lazy afternoons spent at the arcade, or the diner down the street from his apartment.

Noctis looks at him, and smiles.

“Wanna go down?” he asks.

Prompto nods. Checks the time on his phone. “We can, right?”

Shrugging, Noctis grins, and starts walking down the stairs “What’s Ignis gonna do?”

“Scold us, for one thing. Don’t think he won’t. He’s scary.” But Prompto, too, is grinning as he follows Noct.

It’s even better when they’re actually in the crowd. There’s an energy here, and it’s infectious. He doesn’t even notice Noctis looking at him until he turns and grins at him.

There’s a glint in his Noct’s eyes, and that’s dangerous. Iris once told him it’s the same look Prompto has, when he has a bad idea.

“What?” he asks, laughing nervously. “What’s up?”

Noctis steps closer. Clears his throat. Then he offers his hand. “Dance with me.”

It’s not exactly voiced like a question. Prompto thinks a crown-prince-turned-king probably doesn’t have to really ask for a dance, but he does wonder if that’s also how Noct was during the social functions he’s always dested. The mental image of him demanding a dance from an unsuspecting lady has him snort, and Noct raises an eyebrow.

“Wait, you’re - you’re serious. Dude. Really?”

“Of course I’m serious. Come on, time to see if all those dance lessons paid off.”

“Oh gods,” Prompto mutters. But he places his hand into Noct’s anyway. Who needs enemies with a friend like you?”

“Shut up.”

Noct pulls him closer, places his right hand on Prompto’s back and holds Prompto’s with his left.

It’s not hard, actually, to fall into a rhythm. Noct’s great at leading, and Prompto doesn’t even really have to think about how to move his feet anymore. He guesses all those dance lessons really did pay off. Noct even spins him - something he’s been teaching Prompto more to initiate than follow, but it works out anyway, and soon, they’re both laughing.

“I was laughing earlier,” Prompto tells him, “because I was imagining you saying that to some unsuspecting person at your royal gatherings with the same face you wore earlier. Did anyone ever tell you you can look scary?” He chuckles.

“I do not,” Noct protests. “And what do you mean?”

“That!” Prompto makes a face - stern, almost a glare. Definitely not like how Noctis had looked at him. And then, in a complete mockery of Noctis’ voice, he says, “‘ _Dance with me.’_ ”

“That’s not how I said it!”

“...Okay, nah.” Prompto shakes his head, laughing. “Maybe not quite like that.”

“And besides. I don’t.” Noct spins him again, a smug grin on his face when Prompto looks startled.

“Don’t what?”

“Ask other people. Are you kidding me?” Noctis shakes his head. “I usually stood next to the throne, nodding and greeting people, and then I went to hide with Ignis. Who always lectured me but never made me go back, by the way.”

“That softie.” Prompto processes the words. “Wait, you don’t actually dance? Like, at all?”

“At all. I don’t like any of those people, why would I want to dance with them?”

And - oh. Okay, that isn’t what Prompto expected. But then Noctis offered to dance with him. Insisted that Prompto learned how to, because he wanted him at his side when he celebrated his actual coronation.

There’s a lump in his throat, the feeling in his chest hot like white light, and Prompto presses his lips together to stop anything from spilling out, words that he wants to express and doesn’t want to say.

Not right now, he thinks. Don’t let me ruin this.

“Aw, dude, I’m touched,” he says instead. And he is. Really is. He steps closer, wraps his arms around Noct’s neck.

Noct lets him, arms coming around Prompto’s waist to hold him in a fluid movement like it’s something they practiced, like it’s a part of their dance; the next logical conclusion to follow.

Maybe they’re just acutely aware of each other.

If so, a part of Prompto hopes that Noct hears at least some of what he doesn’t say.

 

 

* * *

  _E P I T A S I S_  

* * *

 

 

At what point, he wonders, did everything go so horribly, horribly wrong? Because if he knew, he would demand a do-over from the gods. They deserve better. Ignis deserves better.

Noct, too, deserves better.

It’s not fair, any of this. He’s seen the contusions Ignis tries to hide - the ones he got from stumbling and falling and not being able to properly defend himself. Prompto’s got nothing but absolute admiration for him. He’s always known Ignis was amazing, but to go on like this, to decide that he wants to be part of all of this despite being injured the way he is… Ignis has a strength that Prompto can only aspire to.

(There hasn’t been any sign of improvement, and there probably won’t be. Prompto knows this. Ignis definitely knows this. He wonders if Gladio and Noct have figured that out yet.)

And he understands Gladio’s anger, to a point. Gladio - Gladio acts out when he feels helpless. Years of knowing him have taught him that. Gladio’s been trained all his life to protect, and now Ignis has lost his sight and Noct almost died and he watched Luna be killed, and Gladio couldn’t stop any of it. Prompto understands that the anger Gladio feels is more directed at himself, but he’s projecting - and because Noct blames himself he’s an easy victim for Gladio to blame him, too.

Prompto understands, how that works. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to shake his shoulders and yell at him, because the person suffering in silence here is Noct. Noct, who blames himself for it all - the loss of his childhood friend and Ignis’ sight.

It’s not fair.

Prompto kind of wants to cry - because doesn’t know what to do, because Noct refuses to.

Because Noct is suffering and he can’t help him.

But tears won’t help anyone.

He leaves Gladio and Ignis by the fire, and sits next to Noct on the edge of the haven. Holds out a cup of noodles for him. “It’s all I could do, I’m afraid,” he says, quietly.

Noct doesn’t acknowledge him at first, but then takes it from Prompto’s outstretched hand and nods a thanks. He doesn’t eat, just moves the cup from one hand to the other, until he finally settles on warming both his hands with it.

What to say, at a moment like this? He doesn’t need to ask him if he’s okay - Prompto knows he isn’t. None of them are okay.

So he shifts closer to him - not touching, but close enough that he could. An offer, for Noct to take or leave, no questions asked.

They sit in silence that way, until Noct asks, very quietly, “how is he? I know he isn’t - obviously, I know, but how is he holding up?”

Prompto considers this. “He’s Ignis,” he says, finally. “Right now, forward is the only way to go, so he’s doing that. He’s not fine, but - he’s working on it. I think it’d be worse, if he felt like there was nowhere for him to go.”

“You think I made the right choice, bringing him down here?”

“I think it wasn’t your choice to make,” Prompto disagrees, gently. “But I don’t think you should have stopped him. It’s keeping him sane, knowing that he still belongs, you know? There’s nothing worse than feeling like you don’t have a place anywhere.”

Noct stays quiet, for a while. It’s freezing, down here in the quarry; the cup of noodles has gotten cold by now, so he sets it aside. Prompto wasn’t expecting him to eat anything, but he had kind of hoped he would.

“Do you-” Prompto starts. “Do you want me to go? I’d rather not leave you, but I understand if you want to be alone.”

There’s no answer at first, and Prompto gets ready to get up when Noctis’ knee presses against his. He looks over, and Noctis meets his gaze for just a moment - there’s something open there, something vulnerable, and it makes Prompto’s heart clench painfully.

“Oh, Noct,” he breathes.

“Don’t,” Noct says, and looks back down over the edge. But his hand finds Prompto’s. He links their fingers, and holds on tightly. “Don’t go.”

It sounds, just a bit, like he means more than just right now.

Prompto nods. Makes a quiet sound of agreement, and moves that final bit closer until he’s pressed against Noctis’ side. He could say it right now - tell Noct how much he means to him, that Prompto would follow him anywhere: To the gates of hell and back, if he had to.

But it doesn’t feel like the right time. Noct’s hurting, right now. This kind of confession probably isn’t what he needs.

“I won’t,” Prompto promises instead, and means it more than he’s ever meant anything in his life. “You’re stuck with me.”

 

* * *

 

Zegnautus Keep is the stuff of nightmares, and Prompto knows it will haunt him for the rest of his life. Even now, with Noct and Ignis and Gladio back by his side, now that he knows that Noct doesn’t hate - doesn’t _blame_ him - still the whirring of machines, the white walls and sound of steel doors make the hairs on his neck stand up.

He’s - he’s scared.

The others are outside keeping watch. Told Prompto to get some rest, but he can’t. Every time he tries, every time he closes his eyes, he sees Ardyn’s face - relives the memories of it morphing into Gladio’s with a sneer, into Ignis’, blood running down his cheek and speaking words of contempt.

Into Noct’s.

That was the cruellest.

He was never outright hateful, when he wore Noct’s face. He was all comforting touches and soft words, and then leaving Prompto with the realisation that no one had come for him after all. That, technically, compared to the crystal and the kingdom, he wasn’t worth a whole lot.

Ardyn talked of disappointment and betrayal, of Prompto’s weakness and otherness, and Prompto had known that it wasn’t Noct saying those things, but it was _his_ voice - it was his voice, and when Prompto had screamed, that voice had laughed.

As Gladio, Ardyn had cut into Prompto’s flesh. As Noct, he’d cut into his soul.

The skin on his wrist is red and angry, not from the restraints, but from the way Prompto had scratched at it furiously again, and now he stares at it feeling hollowed out and numb.

He wonders if he’ll ever get rid of those images - if he’ll ever be able to sleep again.

The door opens with a whoosh, and just for a second, Prompto squeezes his eyes shut, heart beating a panicked rhythm in his chest.

But then he hears the steps - slow, hesitant. Weight shifted just slightly to the ball of his foot; a habit formed years and years ago, ingrained in training to allow for faster movement in battle, and carried over to the way he normally moves.

Ardyn could never get that part right.

Noct walks closer. Stops. Walks another step. Then he sits down on the bed, facing the other wall.

“Hey,” he starts. “I’m- I’m sorry.”

Prompto frowns. Turns, just a little, to look at him, but Noctis is staring down at his lap, his shoulders hunched. He looks, somehow, very small.

“For what?” He asks. Noct had come for him, like Prompto had told himself over and over and over again that he would. Noct has nothing to be sorry for.

“For being deceived so easily.” Noct takes a deep breath. “For hurting you like that.”

Ah. The train. Prompto remembers. The yelling and the threats; the chase through the compartment. The fear and wondering what was wrong with Noct. He remembers the falling, too. That had - that had hurt, yeah, in more ways than one. After seeing what Ardyn could do, Prompto had thought that he might have done the same to Noct, but.

But there had been just a trace of doubt in his mind that maybe he’d meant it.

If anything, Prompto feels like he should apologise for that, too.

“Ahh,” he drawls. Aims for casual, for something like a joke; his voice falling just short of that. “How could you? We’ve been through so much together, after all.” He leans forward, folds his hands together. Tries to block out the images of his friends looking at him in disgust. “Nah. Don’t worry about it. You’re not the only one that was fooled.”

They’re quiet, for a moment. He feels Noctis shift, just slightly, and then there’s silence - no movement, no word - it’s like he’s afraid to say something; afraid to move. Prompto looks over his shoulder to see Noct look down, and follows his gaze to see Noct’s gloved hand hovering near Prompto’s, as if he’s unsure.

He doesn’t know, what Ardyn did to Prompto, and Prompto will not tell him -  not now, when all that would do is make him feel worse.

But it does cut him, just a little. He’d never, in all his life, wanted to be in a situation where Noctis would ever hesitate to touch him - not even for his own well-being.

“Noct,” he says. The name coming out raspy. He doesn’t know how to explain - it doesn’t feel like enough, to say ‘ _it’s fine.'_  Like he’s giving permission. Like he doesn’t kind of need Noctis to hold his hand, to know that they’re gonna be okay.

But Noct understands. Has always understood, even without words.

His hand comes down on top of Prompto’s, lightly, at first - he threads his fingers in the spaces between Prompto’s, then moves to run a thumb across the back of his hand.

They sit like that, Noct playing with Prompto’s hand for a good while before Noctis speaks again, and his hand feels cold, when Noct moves his away.

“When all this is over,” Noct starts. Prompto doesn’t turn to look, but he can hear the rustling of his leather glove, and can practically see him wringing his hands together. “let’s bring down the borders. Come together as one nation.”

And then he does look, because, what? Noctis catches his eyes, just for a moment, and there’s something unreadable there, something warm and resolute, but then Noctis leans back and crosses his arms. “I mean, what does it matter where you’re from?”

Prompto presses his lips together. Wills himself not to cry, because he knows Noctis. This Noctis - the _real_ one. He knows him as well as he knows himself, and he understands that this is Noctis telling him that it doesn’t make a difference to him, where he’s from.

Standing up on shaky legs, Prompto leans against the upper bed. “Careful. You almost sounded like a real king there, for a moment.”

He pretends his voice isn’t shaking.

Noctis just shrugs. “I guess.”

He’d said it before, earlier, that he didn’t care about any of it - Prompto being from Niflheim. Prompto being one of them - created to become a magitek soldier. Those responsible for destroying Noct’s home.

He’d said he didn’t care, but they were both tired and weary then. Prompto had feared that maybe Noctis just hadn’t processed the information yet.

But this - this is Noctis telling him, though maybe not verbatim, that he wants Prompto to stay. That if Prompto doesn’t feel welcome in his world, he’ll try his best to change it for him.

And then he does say it verbatim.

“I’m going to make this world a better place. You with me?”

And there it is again, that feeling spreading through his whole body, that lump in his throat that’s making it just a bit harder to breathe around Noctis. For the first time since the train, Prompto feels warm again, and he nods, perhaps for too long.

“Uh huh,” he agrees, like there’s anything else he could possibly say. Like there’s any place he’d rather be. “Ever at your side.”

He wishes, just for a moment, that Noctis realises there are countless ways of expressing your love for someone - that this is Prompto’s way of expressing it to him without saying the words.

He wants to. In this moment, this stillness between them, the overwhelming feeling in his chest feels too big to keep in, and he opens his mouth. Says, “Noct.”

But then he notices how Noctis frowns, how he traces every bruise and cut on Prompto’s face. His gaze wanders over his skin, checking for any worse injuries, probably, and then they land on the wrist of his other hand.

It’s instinct, really, the way Prompto pushes away from the bed immediately. How he laughs, nervously, and tries to downplay his reaction. But Noct’s already leaning over, reaching out a hand, and he catches his wrist and carefully pulls Prompto closer, back down onto the bed.

The silence feels heavy, suddenly. Prompto doesn’t dare breathe as Noctis fingers the clasp on the leather bracelets, eyes searching Prompto’s as if asking permission. Prompto tenses, just a moment. But he forces his muscles to relax, and gives him a shaky smile that probably looks as self-deprecating as it is.

The bracelet comes off, revealing the abused skin underneath, the scratch marks long enough to disappear under his glove. Noct’s intake of breath is quiet, but Prompto hears it all the same.

“Prom,” he says, more to himself than to Prompto. “Gods, Prom.”

He runs a finger over the tattoo, over the red and angry skin, feather-light and unbearably gentle. Then he leans down, eyes closed, and presses his forehead on Prompto’s arm, just above his wrist. His breathing his shaky and he’s trembling - his hair tickling Prompto where it falls over his skin.

And then he’s pulling Prompto down with him, until they’re both lying on that bed and he’s pressed against Noct’s chest, head tugged underneath his chin. Noct wraps his arms around him and holds him tightly, buries his nose in Prompto’s hair.

“I’m so glad to have you back,” he whispers. Then adds, even more quietly, as if the words were somehow unspeakable, “I was scared.”

“Me too,” Prompto admits, voice muffled by Noctis’ shirt. It smells like him, familiar and comforting. “I’m really, really glad to be back.”

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he wakes sometime later, he’s still in Noctis’ arms and there’s a blanket thrown over them; Ignis is sitting on a chair nearby, and he thinks he can see Gladio’s head through a gap in the door.

Exhausted, he closes his eyes again and sleeps - soundlessly and without nightmares.

 

* * *

 

Absence, they say, makes the heart grow fonder.

Absence also makes it harder to breathe, some days. Makes you fight more recklessly, makes you fall down and not want to get up again. That’s the part they don’t tell you.

Ten years of darkness were tough. Not everyone knows how to fight, and people were scared. They lost many, many lives, in the first months. It was hard.

Ten years without Noctis, to Prompto, were worse.

It would have been different, maybe, if they’d been prepared. If the crystal came with an instruction manual; if he’d known that Noctis would be gone for some time - if there was some sort of time limit.

But things hadn’t been different, and they never got a chance to prepare: Noctis was there and then he was not, and Prompto somehow had to deal with that.

He knows Noctis is coming back. He knows it in his heart, but damn, Noct is taking his sweet time, and Prompto has never liked the waiting game.

And he’d like to say that he’s too busy to miss him, that it only hurts when he’s thinking about him, but that would be always. He looks in the mirror, sees the sad excuse of a beard he’s trying to grow and thinks of the jokes Noctis would probably make about it, if he could see. He fights and fights and fights and has to remind himself that Noct isn’t there to have his back; that their dance on the battlefield has become a solo act now.

He looks for the stars and loses himself in the spaces between them.

Summons his gun again and again, just to prove that he still can; that the armiger is still accessible and that means that Noctis still out there somewhere. The crystalline magic feels like him, and it’s a comfort.

Missing Noct is like missing a part of himself; he left and now there’s a hole in his chest that refuses to be filled no matter what Prompto does.

I should have told him, he thinks. There were so many chances.

He’d been waiting for the right moment, but then Noct went and disappeared. He’d been waiting for the right moment, but maybe the right moment doesn’t even exist.

Maybe waiting just means waiting forever.

And he vows to himself that he’ll tell him, when he comes back.

It’s cold when it happens. When Cindy barges into his small room above the garage. She’s out of breath, cheeks red and hair a mess, and Prompto jumps to his feet, expecting some kind of daemon attack.

“He’s back,” she gasps, and Prompto freezes. “Talcott called. He’s back, Prompto. Your Noctis is coming to Hammerhead.”

There’s a moment, just a moment, where his world is spinning, tilting, thrown just slightly off-balance, and then he’s scrambling for the door, running down the stairs and out into the cold.

He paces, figdgets. The gun appearing and disappearing in his hand, a nervous tic by now that he’s probably not getting rid of anytime soon. And then Talcott’s truck pulls into the parking lot. Stops.

And then - cliches be damned - it feels like the sun is coming up for the first time in ten years.

Noct looks different, of course; his hair is longer and falls into his eyes. He has a beard. But it’s so undeniably him that Prompto’s knees threaten to give out for a moment. He makes himself move. A careful step, then a second. And then, before he’s realised it, he’s running, closing the distance between them and throwing his arms around Noct’s shoulders, who catches him instinctively - his own arms coming up around his waist to hold him.

The familiarity of it all is like a punch in the gut, and Prompto’s eyes water.

“Noct,” he says. The name sounds like reverence. “ _Noct._ ”

“Hey, Prom,” Noctis greets, and his own voice is thick with emotion. “I’m back.”

 

* * *

 

When Noctis comes back, Prompto had vowed, I will tell him.

But then Noctis had come back, to a world full of ruin, had sat them down around a campfire, and told them it was him or the sun.

Had told them he was going to die.

And Prompto’s world had fallen apart a second time.

He barely hears Gladio’s demand of  “what the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” or the chair that clatters to the ground. He doesn’t register Ignis asking for clarification, and the way Noct repeats, verbatim, the prophecy of Bahamut.

There’s a ringing in his ears that’s growing louder and louder. His vision blurs.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Gets up. “I just gotta - I gotta-”

He thinks he gestures, maybe, but he doesn’t finish the sentence- just moves away from camp, along the cliffs overlooking the remains of Insomnia, and ignores Noct’s “Prom, _wait_.”

Noctis or the sun.

The world or Noctis.

Ten years ago, in a different life, Noct had been in a similar position, unsure and maybe afraid. Prompto had thought he understood - had told him that it wasn’t his call what Ignis did or didn’t do. Had told him, _‘I don’t think it’s your choice to make.’_

He knows, selfishly, the choice he’d make. He also knows the choice Noctis would make - will make.

Has made.

It’s the cruellest kind of irony, that. Prompto bites out a laugh and wonders if the gods are watching. If, in their long, long existences, they have a shred of sympathy left for humanity.

Probably not. He wonders if they’re laughing.

He hears Noctis’ approach; his walk not having changed after all this time. The footsteps stop behind him.

“Out of everyone, I wish I could have told _you_ something else. Something better.”

Prompto half turns in his direction. Sighs. Pats the ground next to him, and Noctis sits down, angling his body towards him. “Are you okay?”

“Sure.” Prompto manages a weak grin. “Just had to take five, you know? That was kind of a lot.”

“Stop it.” Noctis reaches out and places a hand on his knee. “Be real with me for a second. Are you okay?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Takes a breath, then two. “No,” he says then finally, and his voice breaks, just a little. “No, Noct, I’m not.”

“Yeah.”Noct nods. There’s something old in his eyes that wasn’t there, ten years ago. “I didn’t think so.”

“How can I be?” Prompto exclaims. “How can _you_ be?”

“I guess,” Noctis shrugs, “I had ten years to get used to it.”

“This isn’t fair. It’s not. We just got you back, Noct. How can they expect us to let you go again? I can’t.” He swallows. “I won’t.”

“You’re gonna have to, Prom.”

“No. There’s so much - so much left to say. And to do. You were meant to get your crown back, and have a big celebration. We were gonna dance, remember?” He chokes out a laugh. “Whose feet am I gonna step on, now?”

Noct grins weakly.  “You’ll find someone, I’m sure.”

“We were gonna make the world a better place,” Prompto whispers. “Remember that, too?”

The hand on his knee tightens, just a little, and then it comes up to pull him closer, crush Prompto against his chest. Noctis’ grip is strong, almost painful; Prompto thinks the fingers digging into his skin are going to leave bruises, but he doesn’t care. Wraps his arms around Noctis and holds on just as tightly.

“I’m sorry,” Noctis says. “I’m so sorry.”

Prompto shakes his head. “Not your fault. None of it. Screw the astrals. Screw them and their prophecy and their war and the mistakes they’re making you pay for.”

“If you don’t want to come tomorrow, I understand. I won’t hold it against you.”

“Shut up, Noct.” Prompto buries his face in the crook of Noct’s neck. “I told you. Ever at your side. Till the bitter end.”

 

 

* * *

_C A T A S T R O P H E_  

* * *

 

 

“No turning back now,” Prompto tells Noctis, standing on the steps of the palace, about to greet his own death with open arms.

“If there’s anything left to be said, better say it now,” Gladio says. “Later’s gonna be too late.”

He could say something, Prompto knows. He’d promised he would, and it’s not too late - not yet. He could open his mouth, say the words he’s been guarding all these years, and they would finally be out in the open.

(He almost had, when they fought Ifrit. Had said, _hey, uh, Noct?_

But ultimately, he’d said dropped it with a ‘nevermind!’ and a shaky grin.

He’d told himself to stop being stupid.)

It would accomplish absolutely nothing now. Noct could say no, and he would be kind about it. And even if, like in Prompto’s perfect little fantasy, Noct would say yes, it would change nothing.

Noct would take those last few steps, save the world, get himself killed.

Saying it now - saying _anything_ now - would be cruelty.

So Prompto says nothing; the weight of everything he never said hanging in the air between them like a lifeline about to snap. It’s funny - he always thought that regret would sound like silence.

It’s a lot louder than that.

“Prompto,” Noctis calls. Hesitates, hands curling into fists. Then he shakes his head and continues. “...Gladio. Ignis. I leave the rest to you. Walk tall, my friends.”

Then Gladio bows, and so does Ignis. And Prompto, too, bows - to his best friend, the person he’s loved more than anyone in this word. To the one person he would have followed anywhere; the one he’d happily called his king.

He stays down even when the other two have straightened, even when he hears the daemons approach. Stays down until Noctis tells them, “I’m off.”

And then he’s walking away, and Prompto watches him go. Watches his retreating back until the daemons are too close to ignore, until he has to turn around.

Prompto watches him walk out of his life, and it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.

He bites his lip, hard enough to draw blood, and summons his gun. Gets into position.

Beside him, Ignis moves, but not to fight. He turns towards Prompto and reaches for him. Finds his arm, and then his shoulder.

“Go,” he tells him.

“What?”

“Prompto.” Ignis inclines his head. “I have,perhaps, failed to say it before, but I hope you know that, after everything we’ve been through, I consider you my family. I have seen you pine away, and felt you suffer, and I could not help you. But I can stop you from making the biggest mistake of your life. Go.” His grip tightens, before he lets his hand fall away. “This is your last chance.”

“But-”

“We got this,” Gladio interrupts. He raises his sword against his shoulder and laughs - a sound Prompto hasn't heard in too long. “Looks like we never got that fairytale, huh? But Prompto - you can still have this.”

He pushes Prompto out of the way, towards the stairs, and tells him, “Run!”

And Prompto does. The gun disappears in a flurry of crystalline shards, and he starts running, running, _running_ because 'now or never' has never sounded so pressing. Of course his friends knew. After all this time, he can read them like a language he’s fluent in. Of course his was no secret to them.

He catches Noctis shoulder before he's even realised he's caught up with him. Spins him around and stares into his eyes, wide with surprise.

“Prompto?”

“I don’t want to step on anyone else’s feet,” Prompto says, out of breath. “I don’t want to dance with anyone else. I wanted to be there, right next to you, when you got your crown.”

“Prom, what-”

“No. Let me- I have to say this. I wanted to be by your side. That’s the only place I ever wanted to be, Noct.” He reaches out and takes his hand. “I wanted _this_ , always. It was a stupid joke Gladio made years and years ago, in Lestallum; I don’t know if you remember. He said - he said I was gonna ask you to marry me. He said he was scared of us running a country together. But I wanted that, too. I would have loved spending our lives being scolded by Ignis for horrible PR decisions, and sneaking out of council meetings. I wanted to have your back, when you ruled, for as long as you needed me, and even when you didn’t. I. Noct, I-”

He takes a breath, holds it.

Says, "I love you."

Says, "I know it doesn't change anything, and I understand if you don't feel the same. That’s okay;  you don’t have to. But gods, Noct, I've loved you for so long. I can't let you go and lose my chance of ever telling you."

The  silence that follows his admission is heavy, too. Noctis says nothing, and Prompto’s heart pounds furiously in his chest. It’s okay, though. Whatever happens now - it feels good to have said it. Noct deserves to know he’s loved, if nothing else.

But then Noct is pulling him close, one hand cradling the back of Prompto’s head. His shoulders are shaking, and Prompto realises he's crying.

"I love you," Noctis replies, voice breaking. "I love you, I love you, I love you. Gods, it’s always been you.”

The hand in his hair moves down to cup his head, and Noct leans in. Stops, a breath away from Prompto’s lips as if to ask, _‘is this okay?_ ’ And it’s Prompto that closes the distance and kisses him. It's wet and salty and warm - perfect in all the ways that matter and all the ways that don't.

It's over too soon.

"I love you." Prompto tells him again. Rests his forehead against Noctis and closes his eyes. Now that he’s said it once, he feels like he could say it a million more times. Keep saying it forever, but they don’t have that kind of time. They don’t even have now.

He wishes he’d have said something sooner. Wishes they’d have more time; that things could be different. There were so many chances.

They hold onto each other, desperately. It’s not enough. The time they have is not enough, but it has to do.

“I hate them,” Prompto tells him, “for taking you from me. Again.”

“I’m sorry,” Noctis says. “I wish I could stay.”

“Then stay.” It’s futile, and they both know it. Prompto would happily continue to live in darkness if he believed for one second that Noctis could ever be happy that way.

But the decision isn’t his to make, and Noctis has already chosen.

Noctis kisses him once more, so gentle that it breaks Prompto’s heart.

“In another life,” he says, “we laugh on the rooftop of the Citadel, having snuck out of yet another council meeting, though Ignis totally knows where we are. You take pictures of the city, talking about how much you love the lighting, and I try to take a nap because the breeze feels nice, and it’s warm. In another life, we laugh at the idea that we could be anything other than happy.”

Prompto clenches his eyes shut; tears overflowing and running down his cheeks. “I’ll find you again,” he promises. “No matter how long it takes.”

Noctis nods. Holds Prompto’s hand in both of his. “You waited for me for so long. I can wait for you this time.”

He raises Prompto’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to his palm. Their eyes meet, and then slowly, Noct lets go of his hand. “I love you, he says, one last time.

“I love you,” Prompto replies.

Then Noctis turns, enters the throne room.

The doors close behind him, and the hallway falls silent.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is meant to be a continuation of my other fic, _could you help me feel your pulse_ but can be read as a stand-alone. I plan to write one more fic for the series though, so if you wanna, you can check the first one out? 
> 
> Title is taken from Dessa's "Sound The Bells".


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